‘IT’S big,” the waiter at Sandro’s agrees with my friend, dazzled by a pizza-size plate of veal Milanese. “The chef, he is big, too.”As big, in fact, as his following. Sandro Fioriti, a smiling mammoth of a man, clogs the aisles on a stroll through the dining room. Adoring patrons touch him as if to make sure he’s real.

It takes star power to lure Upper East Siders to lower Ninth Avenue. Tonight, they’ve turned out like a voting bloc – e.g., dapper author David Halberstam in suit and tie at odds with the chef’s pajama pants, splashed with red and green soccer balls. They want a taste of Sandro. Anyone who remembers his restaurant on East 59th Street wants a taste of Sandro.

The original Sandro’s, owned by Tony May, was a place of sunlight-drenched Italian dishes not Tuscan, “northern” or “southern,” but somewhere in between. I got a kick spotting Placido Domingo in a baggy sweater, gorging on Roman-inspired treats like thin sausages with bitter broccoli. And there were freebies up the wazoo – free bruschetta, free cookies, free grappa.

Maybe they gave away too much: The place closed in ’92. In years since, Sandro sightings have been as rare, and precious, as those of Bobby Fischer after his title forfeit.

At last, Sandro’s back with his own place, a smaller, more casual setting of pastel yellow walls and white tablecloths. When full, it’s cramped to the torture point: “Are we going to be treated like animals, or do we leave?” the woman at the next table sighs.

But soggy baccala (salt cod, $20) comes drowned in a messy tomato-and-onion puddle. The waiter forbids us from adding pepper to garganelli with veal ($15): “It changes the flavor of the veal.” Alas, the disappointingly limp pasta could do with any flavor at all.

Our evening waiter is no less irksome, and if Sandro knew how his floor crew messes with his menu, he’d make them peel potatoes. Two of us may not have different beef dishes because “they are too much alike.” “Cream,” with a stern shake of the head, is the fellow’s ominous take on another. Asked to repeat the endless specials list, he makes a face.

But when we finally settle for what is allowed, we forget about him. Spaghetti with lemon and cream ($8 starter, $15 entree), neither cloying nor gooey, improbably works. Crackling olive oil-fried artichoke ($8.50), resembling a giant mushroom, goes down like candy. The old Sandro generosity turns up in a comp plate of the veal garganelli – alas, it’s as flat as before.

True to memory, Sandro’s way with meat conjures a feast in the soft Rome dusk. His touch for crunch shows up in polenta cake beneath mouth-watering, boneless veal shank ($24).

That sprawling veal Milanese ($30), with breading startlingly crisp, laughs at the one I had in Milan. Straccetti del Tuscolo ($20), beef paillards quick-grilled on one side only, falls short because some of the beef is too thick and gristly – but oh, that olive lilt.

Desserts ($7) are sweeter still, like a sinful sundae of raspberries, polenta cream and Grand Marnier. Beware badly mixed bar drinks: Stick with wine. The better reds are served in proper, French-style large glasses.

Sandro’s is one of the last restaurants where your itemized bill is scribbled by hand. If you need to take it with you, ask first, or they will chase you down the block – just the thing to cleanse you of your olive oil haze.